A Lipstick Killers' Valentine

article and illustration by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

the ineffably glam New York Dolls

Lipstick. It’s transformative and essential. It’s also our topic for this Valentine’s Day at the Skool.

The overwhelming selection of shade, texture, and opacity are enough to make your head spin and your lips chap. The joy of cracking open a new tube is unparalleled. As you twist up the stick, it shines and winks at you. But it’s not until you’ve swiped on a coat and surveyed the application that you are convinced you and your new shade are compatible. 

Do you remember your first, Skoolers? Not your mom’s natural looking frosty pale “Plutonium Pink” you covertly tested in the bathroom, or your dead grandma’s shade of “Tepid Flesh”, lovingly willed to you. Or cast-offs from your aunts, like “Vivid Livid Liver”, or “Colour Me Coli form”, with the ends are all rounded off-- impossible to contour one’s lips with, unless you’re going for a Ringling Brothers look. Or worse, it’s disappointingly worn down to just the inside edge of the tube -- only accessible by Q-tip. No, I’m talking about your very own handpicked lipstick, the color relevant to the year you were living in.

Prior to any sort of access to lipstick I admit that I resorted to the Smarties collection. That’s right. Wet two or three red Smarties and apply to lips. Discard Smarties by eating. Reapply as needed, usually every four to five minutes. For special occasions-- or if you’re feeling like taking a walk on the wild side-- try the purple or brown ones.

One of my earliest contacts with real lipstick involved my brother, his pal Clayton, and a bright white garage. At an age when you are first learning how to spell, say six or seven, you want to let the world know just how skilled you are. And there's no better way to spread the word than to commandeer your mom’s favorite coral lipstick, “Slammin’ Salmon” I think it was called, head across the lane to your neighbor’s freshly painted garage and attempt to spell the work ‘fuck’ in the largest lettering possible. (Take note, Skoolers: I was forming pre-punk expressive tendencies!) The fact that the garage was clearly visible from our kitchen window was hard to ignore, as was our neighbors’ disapproval. This did not dissuade me from pursuing my exploration of the Tao of lipstick. However, I now seem to have an aversion to all orangey shades.

Now, Skoolers, you may be asking “Mrs. Thirlwell-Nicol, yawn, what’s this got to do with Punk Rock?” Well, settle down and stop sniffing that nail polish remover, Avril, and I’ll tell you.

Does lipstick hold an esteemed position in the music scene? I would answer that by asking, “how could it not”? Lipstick, like rock’n’roll, pushed the boundaries of society’s love affair with conformity. In the olden days the forerunners of lip colour were primarily those living on the fringes, like actors and prostitutes. Even into the 1940s and 50s a bright red lipstick could colour one promiscuous. Demure soft pink lipstick-wearing singers such as the Lennon sisters contrast dramatically with, say, the Shangri-Las and their rebellious ruby shades. 

Now let’s skip over the 1960s (and all that white lipstick which only looks fabulous if you are willing to keep your mouth shut) to the early 1970s. This brings us to the predecessors of punk and the emergence of the lovingly crafted trash glam look. One band that stands out is the New York Dolls. But where would they have been if not for lipstick? And, okay, boas, sequins and platforms. I’m not saying that the New York Dolls were the mavens of male make-up in the rock arena. In fact, I’ll bet Little Richard could have taught them a thing or two. However, they did have their way with lipstick. Which begs the question: would David Johannsen’s pleas in the song "Looking For a Kiss" be heard if he hadn’t been all dolled up, complete with a scorching shade of lipstick? Furthermore, would bare-lipped Dolls singing about much-desired kisses have still caught the attention of one Malcolm McLaren? Who, in turn, absconded with their outrageous style and attitude, and then swiftly outfitted and thrust his Sex Pistols on to the stage. The Pistols, having bathed in global glory for their nasty uniqueness, showed their gratitude to the Dolls by recording the song “New York”. The song, anti-homage, makes fun of the Dolls’ look, need to find a kiss and, okay, their penchant for various ‘medications’.

The Sex Pistols: cream of the crop

Now Skoolers, if you’ll turn to page 104 in your “Lexicon of Legendary Lyrics” textbook you will see that the first line of the song “New York”, written by Mr. Lydon, reads: “An imitation from New York”. What?? Hold the phone! There must be some mistake. Wasn’t Johnny singing “An invitation from New York”? And I’ll be (a member of the) Damned if it didn’t warm my heart on a hot-plate to have thought that the Dolls had extended a brotherly welcome to the Pistols, inviting them to jump the pond and perhaps play some gigs together. Hmm. Not so.  It turns out Rotten was actually singing “an imitation from New York”-- which really isn’t very sporting, is it? Sure, maybe they rebuked the Dolls make-up aesthetic, but that’s no reason to get overly snotty.

It wasn’t too long before Johnny Thunders would have something to say about all this. His retaliation was neatly encapsulated in the song “London Boys”. While not exactly a chart-topper, it did include a few choice phrases like “you poor little puppet” in reference to Rotten dangling from McLaren’s orchestrated strings. Now Skoolers, don’t get me wrong-- I am not trying to create a case for who was the most punk rockiest first. Anyway, the Dolls pre-dated punk. They inspired a ‘do your own thing’ ethic and McLaren brought that sensibility back to London and found some lads with some seriously bad manners to fulfill his vision.

It would seem, however, that all had been forgiven, especially considering that Steve Jones and Paul Cook actually joined Thunders in the recording of "London Boys". Oh, except for some incriminating evidence that surfaced. That’s right class-- the real reason for all those musical missives was found stuffed in the depths of an old sock drawer after McLaren’s demise. Yes, these letters could possibly have been the inspiration that ignited this legendary melodious melodrama. Here are a few excerpts from some rather nasty back and forth telegrams between the boys. Valentines these are not.

Sweet Johnny Rotten

Letter dated January 10^th 1977

Dear Mr. Rotten,

My bass player, Arthur ‘Killer’ Kane, was taking stock of his make up kit this morning and noticed that his Max Factor #2 is missing. He feels that one of the members of your band may have ‘borrowed’ it to cover up a few blemishes. Please return it promptly as we have a show in the next few days and Arthur refuses to play without it.

Sincerely,

David J.

                                    __________________

Response from Rotten dated January 30^th 1977

Dear David,

Go fuck yourself. Just because both our bass players share the same sickly complexion doesn’t mean Sid nicked it. Besides, Sid wouldn’t wear make up. He may try to drink it or shoot it, but he don’t wear it.

Up yours,

Rotten

P.S. Sid says Johnny Thunders stole one of Nancy’s best lippys, “Sugar-smacked” I think it’s called. She wants it back or else.

                                 ____________________

Response from the Dolls camp dated February 14^th 1977

Happy Valentine’s Day Boys, 

You’re all so special to us in so many ways. Thunders is completely devastated to hear that you think he would pinch Spungeon’s lipstick--considering the number of sores she’s usually sporting. 

By the way, Steve Jones can keep the eyeliner he borrowed from Thunders, as well as the stage presence.

Lovingly,

David

                              ___________________

As you can see, Skoolers, things got more than a little salty and the accusations flew. It was a veritable compact powder dust-up! Fortunately for us, the songs exist as a reminder of the influence of make-up and its often times gritty and provocative effect. They are important historical insights, the equivalent of hieroglyphic storytelling.

No one is really sure if everyone kissed and made up. Or if anyone returned anyone’s make up. And even though you can’t put your arms around a memory, the songs and the lipstick killers live on.

Smurf Day Approacheth

the enigmatic Smurfette

When we last left our heroine, she had undergone several weeks of preparation for the Obagi Blue Peel (see "The Blue Peel Letters"). This involves using a number of products, chiefly a bleaching cream, generic Retin-A and plenty of sunscreen.

Dear Miss X,

I know that you have been anxious on my behalf, so allow me to reassure you. In spite of the nurse's kindly warnings, week four of the elaborate treatment was not after all an inferno of peeling, pain and redness. Curiously, this fact seemed to cause the angel at my bedside some consternation. However, I swore upon my honour that I had been using the products as directed, and this seemed to console her.

My skin is a pleasure to me now! I scarcely recall the dark days when I would  awaken early and flee to my closet to mask myself before my husband awoke. The mirror is no longer an instrument of torture to me; in fact, I blush to say it, I am in danger of spending too much time before the glass admiring my skin, for it is free of dark spots and blemishes alike. Rather, it is white and smooth, as are my hands. I confess that I contravene my nurse's orders and use the preparations on my hands as well-- I do not seem to be in danger of running out of the costly cream and unguents as she warned, and it is such a blessed relief to see the few annoying spots of my hands vanish as though they never were.

Aubrey Beardsley illustrates Vanity at the Vanity Table

I must guard against Vanity. Equally I must guard against a slight sense of Anger, for I believe that these creams would have been enough to achieve the effect I desired without resort to the Blue Peel, and the nurse did not apprise me of this possibility. However, I have only myself to blame, for no person, no highwayman, took my money by force. Furthermore, I anticipate "Smurf Day", as they have christened it for reasons that remain  obscure to me, with considerable excitement.

Affectionately yours,

A Lady



Dearest Mrs X,

I confess that, writing some weeks later, I am full of fears once more! Having consulted with a physician Friend, I am nearly resolved to propose a compromise-- surely they will not force their Peel upon me. The creams and unguents continue to prove miraculous, and I would not part with them for virtually anything. Can the doctor perhaps give me more of these in lieu of the Blue Peel?

My head whirls, and I fear I must to my couch.

Yours in confusion,

A Lady

I Don't Wanna Be Your Downward Dog

 Article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Mr. Pop demonstrates

Good afternoon Skoolers,

Today I’ve called an emergency assembly. We have yet to cover a
topic which, while rather foreign to the punk lifestyle, still has a place in the realm of beauty and thus, the Skool.That subject is fitness.

Now I realize that our Skool is not about to set foot into ‘jock
nifty’ territory, especially when, historically, we had ironically
met our fitness goals by routinely running from packs of said
nifties. You also wouldn’t find too many of us on the swim team,
the tennis circuit or training in track and field. No, our forms of
exercise in the punk days consisted of scaling chain link fences
to escape the authorities, marching in protest parades, diving
off stages at gigs and, of course, the constant cardio blasts from
pogoing in the mosh pit. The latter was our own version of being
on the high school wrestling team.

Gym class was exponentially brutal as the years went by. I never
considered this period to be fun and games. For me Phys Ed
was really just unwarranted punishment between classes. It was
uncomfortable, superfluous and offered no qualitative benefits. Not
seeing a need to be competitive in the wide world of elementary
school sports I became quite skilled at playing on the sidelines.
I dodged dodge ball entirely; being struck in the head by a thick,
heavy sphere of rubber was in no way appealing. The grass hockey
team meant chronically bruised shins and a lot of running up and
down a field hoping for a lunch bell to ring. And running track
was for hamsters; it winded and bored me simultaneously. I did
not experience the so-called ‘runner’s high’. Believe me, if I had I
would have been setting records.

As for group sports, nothing says ‘ready, set, gotta go’ like waiting
to be picked for a team. Ten excruciating minutes of standing
with one’s peers feeling like the Jello salad at Frank Baker’s
smorgasbord while captains Stacy and Mandy choose their
dream team is no way to spend one’s youth. My head is running
a commentary on their selections: ‘Oh man, you’ve got to be
kidding. Really? Her? Okay, seriously, Margaret? This is bullshit
man, that spaz Maureen? ...her? ...wha? ...her?... fine pick Nancy,
I hope she can throw more than just a hissy fit...huh...her?...yup,
okay Wendy, whatever...hey, finally. Not too shabby, second to
last-- I beat out the scoliosis chick!’

As you can see class, my sports stats are less than stellar. But this
didn’t stop me from finding some form of exercise I could live
with. It would be outside of the standard practices of traditional
ladylike sports. I entered the renegade world of skateboarding. The
most valuable thing about this new activity is that it never felt like
exercise. Finally, I had found something that I enjoyed. But that’s a
discussion for another day.

Now, back to the reason for this emergency assembly: fitness, sure.
Staying in shape is important, yep, however, more importantly:
fitness attire. I have never really had an issue with what one
chooses to wear when working out. It used to be all Sporty Spice
Adidas-style nylon or cotton sweat pants, and if one can keep it to
the parks and gyms that’s all well and good. However, currently
this is simply not the case. Somewhere along the track those
sweatpants were swapped out for the rampant and nondiscretionary
wearing of yoga pants. Yes, yoga pants. How did they happen?
Where did they come from and why do women insist on wearing
them? Everywhere.

I’m no stranger to yoga. My mother, determined to find an activity
for me one summer, signed me up for a beginner’s Hatha yoga
class at the local community centre when I was eleven, (after I was
deemed too klutzy for gymnastics and too chunky for ballet). I was
told to wear very loose clothing-- that’s LOOSE CLOTHING all
you spray-on-spandex-loving Sun Salutationers-- preferably draw
string pants and a comfy tee shirt. I wore pajama bottoms and
my ‘War is not healthy for children and other living things’ tee.

The classes were strange and quite the opposite of calming. I never
seemed to please the patchouli-infused yoga instructor and she
made a point of letting me know it. I think her name was
Moonbeam or Sunshine. As I twisted myself into some skewed
position and waited for Moonshine’s appraisal I listened to her
encouraging the other members in the class: “That’s lovely, Sheila,
yes just extend that arm a little more.” When Sunbeam arrived at
my self-styled sculpture there was no gentle critique. She just
started to yank my limbs around like I was Gumby. Ow! “There,
now hold that till I come back,” she barked. (She hates kids, was
my first thought). When Starshine returned ten minutes later she
asked, “Why aren’t you doing the Half Cow?” “ It hurts," I
replied. “But you're just lying there, what pose is this?” she
demanded. “The Plank,” I said.

Now nearly forty years since my introduction to all things pretzel-
like, someone, most likely not a yogi master, has instituted
some sort of yoga by-law: the wearing of stretchy, link sausage-
inducing pants with matching yoga bra tops. But just because the
fabric ‘breathes’ doesn’t make it all right. Apparently this clobber
should be decorated with arbitrarily placed dashes of bright pink or
purple or blue. This is so you can safely match with your yoga mat.
Here we have the necessary outfit to propel us on our road (heavily
trampled) to enlightenment. And if you really want to reach an
enviable level of Nirvana you’ll make sure it has that trademark
logo on the gear, letting everyone know it is of the highest spiritual
quality (that money can buy).

This, for me, is not on. What started out as a means to physical
wellbeing and a way to achieve a sense of peace and tranquility has
morphed into a fancy version of “does my ass look good in these
pants?” And what’s up with the cropped yet flared pant leg? Is the
flare really necessary? Do one’s calves really expand that much
when doing the Warrior pose? I can’t take it. I really can’t. And
what is it about Sundays? You can’t really tell me that every
woman spends the whole Sunday doing yoga and that stretchy
yoga pants are the only ‘must have/go to’ piece to be worn that
day. Oh and please, add insult to injury by sporting a big old pair
of chunky trainers to go with. Hey now you’re set for a stylish
Sunday vegan brunch and a walk along the Seawall with 3,000 of
your contemporaries. Just don’t forget your baseball cap with
protruding ponytail. It’s like a flash mob down there. It’s as if
everyone tweeted the night before, agreed to put on yoga pants and
head to the seawall. Any minute the Black-Eyed Peas are going to
show up. They’ll perform a version of “I’ve Got a Feelin’ with
sitars and tiny cymbals. The LuLu Lemon girls will synchronize all
their Kundalini moves. They’ll be whipping out their color-
coordinated yoga mats, tossing around their foam bricks (for the
less flexible-- pffft-- losers), and pulling on their long Vinyasa
bright pink leg warmers ‘cause it gets chilly in those hot yoga
rooms. Besides, they look so cute. Remember the cuter the outfit
the closer to Vishnu! And don’t forget to rehydrate using your
standard issue “Om” stainless steel water bottle. It has to be
an “Om”. Om or go home, I say. Afterwards, everyone will pop
into their favorite all-natural health food restaurant for a $30 dollar
bowl of steaming hot organic lentils and fair trade kale and quinoa
salad.

So, if you’ve missed the break out yoga flash mob on the sea wall,
don’t lose any meditation time over it. Just head to your nearest
Bikram franchise and join in on some steaming hot fun. It’s sort
of like Sweatin’ to the Oldies, 2010 style. Get there early because,
really, everyone will be fighting for the front row in anticipation of
the Downward Dog.

Just Call me Cruella

courtesy Disney

by Mistress Justine Brown

They've pushed me too far this time. Who? The government. The British government to be precise, who have just announced that cigarettes can no longer be branded. They outlawed smoking in pubs a while back, and soon no doubt they'll outlaw drinking in pubs as well, for our own good. I blame them-- why not, everybody else does-- and their battalions of finger-waving nannies. I blame them for the state I'm in. (Now there's a nice pun.) And lucky I've got someone to blame for this, 'cause it's pretty darn ludicrous to have to reveal just how very affected I am, and how far I will go in my efforts to look cool. I'm as bad as a teenager. Worse. Yesterday I bought a tin of cigarillos and a cigarette holder. Even had a little puff. My New Near's resolution is to start smoking at last. How ridiculous can one eminently stylish, rakish, devil-may-care gal be?

Kate Moss. Take that, nanny state!

In one fell swoop I have crossed the line from tobacco contrarian to smoker (that's all it takes, a couple of puffs and voila!). Yes, for years I have been annoying people with my controversialist ideas on smoking. I get that it's unhealthy; we all do by now. I just don't get why smoking seems to be the one thing that the general public considers to be undeniably sinful. All kinds of foul stuff gets a free pass, but smoking, now there's some serious evil for you. A lot of people seem to really enjoy policing their neighbours. Did you know that the health authorities have outlawed the final cigarette? Yep. Some states practise execution, as we all know. Nowadays, the prisoner can't get a last smoke before he gets the rope, needle or electric chair, not even if the guards take him into the fresh air. Smoking is bad for his health. It could kill him!

I could go on. And on. I've never been a smoker, though all my punk rock friends were. My bedroom looked like a misty moor thanks to them. I know what a smoking habit looks, smells, and tastes like. I used to go hunting for butts in the snow with one particularly desperate friend. We knew all the tricks: hit the bus stops first, for example. So it wasn't hard to resist the cancer sticks. However, those of you who know me have likely heard of my plan to start smoking at sixty. Basically, it was going to be a consolation prize. Okay, I would be wrinkled and raddled, but at least I could distract myself and others with swanky tobacco tricks. But by then, I reasoned, I might have to score my smokes on the black market while the rest of you were buying weed at 7-11. It's looking more and more like I was right: smoking the peace pipe is going to be illegal in pretty short order. That's why I've decided to start now instead.

So I'm stocking up on paraphernalia. I bought my cigarillos at a tobacconist's den near Victoria Station. There were uniformed schoolkids in there buying candy, no doubt lured in by the increasing chic of smoking-- a sense of the forbidden intensified in no small part by the latest edict from on high. The other customer was a plushly dressed business dude, clearly a cigar man. "Hey," I asked brightly, "do you know something about tobacco?"

"Not as much as that gentleman over there does," he replied, indicating the shopkeeper.

"A friend of mine introduced me to pipe tobacco once," I reminisced. "It tasted fantastic. But I don't want to look like Gandalf. I'm looking for a cigarette that actually tastes good."

The fellow allowed as how he didn't smoke cigarettes ("Neither do I!"), but he figured cigarillos would suit a lady. Plus you're not even supposed to inhale them. The shopkeeper showed me a few options. I chose a slim little tin and a properly flamboyant holder. We conversed a bit about his future prospects, which look dim. Every time he opens the paper there's some new bit of bad news for war criminals like himself. A soft-spoken fellow from Pakistan, he looked rather flattened.

Anyway, now I've got my gear. I'm especially pleased with the holder. Now that winter's come and the air is clear, cold and frosty, I can irritate folk by waving it around and generally making like an old hand without even involving tobacco at all. I'll just whip out my holder, take a drag of oxygen, and blow.  The temperature will do the rest. I’ll breathe air rings around ‘em. Anyone who wants to duke it out with me over this issue can do it the old-fashioned way. Meet me on Wandsworth Common at dawn. We’ll settle this in a clash of cigarette holders. If you don’t own one, a pencil will do, or perhaps a plastic straw.

Not cool, just stupid? The merest of mindgames? We’re like that, we smokers, with our nasty little toys, our noxious fumes, our fictional scenarios conjured up out of the ether. We like to imagine that we’re wicked. How childish. Just call me Cruella, Cruella de Vil.

The Ultimate Skool Uniform

.... from Mistress Brown's point of view, at any rate! We conclude our Skool Advent Calendar with another hard-won little black dress from the Lanvin for H and M collection-- of which more shortly. (The Browns are recovering from a wonderful meal and an epic trek across frozen and Tube-stricken London.) Meanwhile, a marvelous twelve days of Christmas to all of you from Beauty Skool.

Skool Uniform: Paper Debbie Dolls

As a Christmas gift to our loyal Skoolers, we are putting Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol's gorgeous Debbie Harry paper dolls into a permanent exhibition. Our Skool Uniform LBD Advent Calendar is nearly complete: stay tuned for one more little black dress with a special festive flourish! Take a minute between presents and bites of turkey to visit the inspiring Uniform Project site. What would it take for YOU to wear one LBD for a month solid?

On The Fringe

Article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Mr Mark Bolan's famous hair

How often have we heard ourselves complain about the texture of our hair? It seems many ladies yearn for the opposite of what they possess. For example, gals with curly hair long for straight and vice versa. I happen to be an exception and you won’t hear me lament, “oh my hair, what cruel strands have I been dealt....you’re sooo lucky you have wavy hair”. Although it could be a little thicker, I am, in fact,quite satisfied with my unremarkable straight hair.
This wasn’t always the case. Let’s dial back to a time when ‘classic rock’ wasn’t yet classic, it was just ‘rock’ and punk had yet to be invented. I’m reminded of a small window of time during that era when my straight Valerie Bertinelli hair was convinced it might look cooler with a perm.

"...My mom actually cried when she saw the hatchet job. Now you know how I feel, lady, I thought to myself..."

A Spiral Perm. This should be a perm to rival Peter Frampton’s. From the ‘Frampton Comes Alive’ live (duh) double album. I believe it was overuse of the Wah-Wah guitar pedal that actually made his hair come alive. As was the case with the hair condition of Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page and that guy from Metallica-- all Wah-Wah pedal aficionados. But, as usual class, I digress. Maybe it was a little earlier and Marc Bolan drilled it into my head with the line “I ain’t no square with my corkscrew hair” as he banged a gong. Would this imply that with my non-corkscrew hair I am a square? I want the “universe reclining in my hair” too. To the nearest hair saloon, I must texturize!

This would be my first time at a real beauty parlor. Up until then it was all, ‘Sit still, godammit!’ as my mom tried to square off my fringe year after painful year. The outcome always lopsided, it looked as if she had been cutting my hair on the Andrea Gail during a perfect storm. And then there was the time I did it myself when I was six and discovered scissors. My mom actually cried when she saw the hatchet job. Now you know how I feel, lady, I thought to myself.

Since my mother wasn’t up to speed on home perm kits (thankfully), I nervously settled my teen-age self into a salon chair-- not unlike being at a dentist appointment. In fact, some measure of anesthetic would have been comforting when the state of my freshly permed hair hit full force from the giant mirror in front of me, and behind and beside. After hunkering down for about two hours with tight rollers wedged into my head it was a foregone conclusion: I was a frightening surround of Robert Plant and Stevie Nicks’ love child multiplied ad infinitum. 

Not only that but I had to fork over six months of babysitting money for the privilege. I had heard about salon nightmares and now I had my own initiation. The saddest part is that I tried to convince myself that it was an okay look. But it wasn’t. My Bertinelli feather-winged bangs had morphed into a horizontal mopped Don Martin character from Mad Magazine, which was a fine tribute if that’s the look you were going for. I tried pulling a few fusilli strands straight and down into a considerably more natural gravitational position, only to let go and hear “boi-innggg” as they snapped back into place.

Classic Don Martin 

It was on the way home when the word ‘perm’ really sank in. Noooo, I thought with a sinking horror. But it’s true; perm is short for permanent. I’m going to look like this for the rest of my life! I darted into the house and into the sanctuary of my bedroom before my brother and his friends could feast their eyes on this moving target. Damn you 1970s classic rock icons! I shook my fist at the KISS army poster above my bed. I tore off my jean jacket (adorned with the Rolling Stones’ tongue logo I had painstakingly hand-stitched on the back) and reassessed the damage at my large vanity mirror. Sob.

My new hairdo happened to be all the more tragic because at this point in my life I had just started to ‘transition’. No, I wasn’t pre-op sex change. It was that all-important time in a young person’s life when they heed the call to transition from their Led Zep “Good Times, Bad Times” hard rock ways to the new “let’s see my hippie parents figure this shit out” cult of punk. So what was I thinking when I opted for a knock-off Wilson sisters (of Heart, not Wilson-Phillips) hair sculpture? I don’t know. Perhaps some mystical deep-rooted sense of loyalty to those days of yore took hold of me -- or maybe it was that after-school joint. I tried pulling a comb through it. Nope. The universe will most definitely not be reclining in my hair anytime soon. My ‘do’ would be rejecting whatever might come near it. I now have my own force field. This will not be terribly handy if I happen to attend the upcoming high school dance.

Sure, I could have shaved my head or sculpted a Mohawk. But Skoolers, I at least had the wherewithal to assess my face shape and I came to the conclusion that removing all my hair would render me rather moon-faced (not an alluring look), and just a tad too exposed for my environment. But why was I thinking in terms of extremes? Why not have the best of both worlds? No I was not going to entertain the mullet nor would I implement the ‘faux hawk’-- I’m just not that butch. I would have to be patient.
At every reasonable opportunity I trimmed the fringe and looked forward to the full recovery of my smooth bangs. I found a way to accept the waviness elsewhere on my head. I told myself that it would look rather Joey Ramonesque. It would be okay. I’d make sure to supplement with plenty of heavy liquid eyeliner. And slowly, like a caterpillar shedding its unbearable David Lee Roth wigged cocoon, I would emerge with my lovely limp locks free from the bondage of 1970’s freakytown. Yes, free at last from the ridicule of my brother and his friends telling me not to go near any more light sockets. Free from my dad telling me that the school janitor called and said he wants his mop back. And free from being mistaken for Twisted Sister’s younger sister.

Meanwhile, I looked up again at my KISS poster, “Why, Paul Stanley, why?” I implored. The room started to spin (which wasn’t unusual actually), Paul shifted his intense rock god gaze down to face me and imparted these words of wisdom: “Be yourself and follow your own look”. Wow. That’s heavy. “Oh, and by the way”, he added, “You’re soooo lucky you have naturally straight hair”.